Annie
by roxyrose000
Summary: Welcome to the 70th Hunger Games. Watch as Annie Cresta grows to know her surprising strengths and her devastating limits. Watch as Finnick Odair falls for the girl in the arena who will never know he loves her unless he gets her out alive.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**: ANNIE

_Whenever anyone asks me about that morning it's hard to remember. Hard to focus on it. It feels like a day from somebody else's life. And I suppose it was._

_Back then I was just a girl. No, even that doesn't sound like me. My family is...was my life. I was just one small part of a family that had beaten the odds so many times... I guess we should have known it couldn't go on forever. Maybe in some way we did._

_So when they ask me about it, I don't answer for a moment. I close my eyes and don't focus on the detail. Just listen to the waves, the wind and the laughter._

_They think I'm mad. Everybody thinks I'm mad. They don't understand that I'm torn between two worlds. The world of hard work, family, laughter and innocence – the one I'm so desperate to go back to. And the world where I've seen too much. Done too much. The one I'd be desperate to escape from._

_Only I can't._

_Because if I let myself leave this world I leave him._

_He tells me that keeping me with him is a habit he can't break. Even when I'm so tired of hurting that I'd welcome it. Even when I beg him._

_He says it with a smile, as always._

_"You can't leave me here alone." He says. "I've got nowhere else to go."_

* * *

"Get down, idiot." Leo calls, half-heartedly from where he was lying idly back against the bow watching the rest of us work. As the eldest of the five of us, he fancied himself as something of a father-figure when we were out without Dad.

"I'm not in the way." I answer, lightly. My arms outstretched, feet balanced carefully on the smooth, weathered wood of the gunnel and body braced against the wind. It whipped my hair and dress chaotically around me but I held my balance.

"Show off," Tate calls from his crouched position ready to adjust the sail for the crowded home run up onto the beach.

"There's already too many hands on deck, even with Leo sunning himself," I say, contrarily, with a laugh at Leo's hand gesture.

Our tiny sailing boat is really too small for the five of us but it's not like Dad can afford anything more. Not with a family of seven hungry mouths to feed. But the five of us would never pass up a chance to be out on the water. Out here, we don't have to worry about saying the right thing, doing the right thing, giving the monstrous Career wannabes the 'respect they deserve'. It doesn't matter that the food we provided for the Capitol meant that their stupid academy got funded.

No. We're second class citizens. Anyone that doesn't fight. A vicious circle of working to feed your family so that they're strong enough to work to feed the family. The fishing families rarely had the energy after a morning's work to excel enough at school to be picked for the academy. And unless you're a student of the academy, your family doesn't get their share of the food packages if we happen to have a victor that year.

I remember way back before Joss and Caleb were born and Tate and I were too young to really help with anything. Leo was angry back then. He must have been about ten, that's when they first consider you for the academy. The scouts came into school that day. It was stormy. It must have been an exhausting morning's work for Leo, Mum and Dad. He didn't make the cut. He didn't keep his mouth shut about the injustice of it all.

On the way home, he'd made Tate and I promise to keep it quiet from Mum and Dad. Tate had washed the blood out of his shirt before they got home from the shop, and I'd spread gel over the long lines the whip had left on his back to stop anymore blood soaking through his clean shirt.

It was when I'd first learned that there were some things we could never say on land. We all knew that now. I've never heard Leo say anything like it since.

The angle of the wind changes, pulling my hair across my face. Judging by the angle we needed to hit the beach at, Tate is about to yell out. Before he can even open his mouth I leap, hands on the mast for stability and land nimbly on the other side of the boat out of the way of the sail. I almost overbalance with the change of the wind, wind-milling my arms to keep myself upright before getting back my centre of gravity and balancing once more as Tate secures the sail to the opposite side.

"Show off." Fourteen-year-old Joss echoed Tate's grumbles but with a wide grin. He catches Caleb's eye and together they yank out the dagger-board and throw their weight against the opposite side of the boat. Without the stability of the board, our tiny boat is left vulnerable to the waves and their little stunt leaves it even more unsteady.

I bend my knees to try and ride the roll of the boat but I can only stay strong so long before the giggles get the best of me. Knowing I'm not going to last, I spin and fling myself into a shallow racing dive, narrowly avoiding the sandy seabed now that we're rapidly approaching the beach.

I hear two raucous laughs and brace myself for the two splashes as Joss and Caleb follow suit, making sure to narrowly avoid my head.

I dive under again and surface by Caleb, who only has time to open his mouth in surprise before I spray a mouthful of water into his face.

"_Hey_." He splutters diving for me and yanking me down by the ankle.

After a few minutes of being ganged up on by the pair of them I make a break for it back towards the beach. Only, with the boat now beached, my way is blocked by Tate and Leo who decide to join their brother's side in this tiny war.

"Not fair!" I pull myself up to stand in the waist-deep water. My clothes are heavy and my hair's in my eyes. "I give up, I -"

I lied. I tried to make a break for it to Tate's side but had to laugh when he'd been expecting it.

"I'm sorry. You win. Stop!" I beg, still weak from laughing, as he and Leo take an arm and a leg each and prepare to toss me back into the waves. "I give up! You -"

Not very forgiving, my brothers. I land on my back just in front of a wave breaking into my face and tumble into the shallows with it.

I'm just pulling myself up to a sitting position and wringing out my hair, shaking my head at the boys' laughter when I heard my father's voice yelling from the sand.

I flinch. Dad didn't yell.

"Annie! Leo." He gets our attention. His face is unusually sombre and he glances around at the other fishing families already lining up on the beaches to haul in the nets. Usually they wouldn't mind waiting a moment or two to watch some fun. But usually others would be likely to join in. Usually wasn't...

Dad shakes his head. "Not today." He says, his voice low.

I bow my head and stand up. "Sorry, I -"

I don't know what I was going to say. I was only having fun? Only trying to forget? Only trying not think about how our family has beaten the odds so many times?

"It's ok." He says, offering a hand and pulling me up. My dress continues to drip onto the wet sand.

"Sorry Dad." Caleb and the others join me, faces now clean of laughter and back to reality. The way it always is. Out of the water, into reality. Today, especially.

"You're alright." Dad says. "I have to get back to the shop. Your mother's laid out clothes for you all. You still need to get these nets in and Old Gil says you lot have offered to dive for shellfish for him today." Dad presses his lips together and his eyes soften. Old Gil's only son died in the Games nearly twenty years ago, they say. He's never been quite right since and if it weren't for us, he wouldn't have been able to carry on selling his shellfish at the markets. For a moment I think Dad might tell us he's proud.

He doesn't. "Just hurry home to your mother, ok? She's worried as hell."

Of course she is. She's had to go through this for ten years, since Leo was first eligible. Watching all of us turn twelve and knowing that one of us might be taken away. Fortunately Leo turned eighteen before Caleb turned twelve. I don't know how she would have coped if every one of us were in those bowls. At least she's always had at least one of us to hold her hand.

The rest of the morning seems to fly by. Usually hauling in the nets is one of my favourite parts. The way we all line up along the ropes and work as one to pull them in. Not just the family, but the whole beach. All chanting to keep in time and slowly but surely the nets are beached. Of course, then we have to load them immediately onto the Capitol trailers backed up against the sand and it's unlikely we'll see those fish again. You can practically hear all the stomach's grumble as one.

Old Gil pushes a crate of shellfish into our hands after we've finished the dive and crated them all up for him. He never speaks aloud, just uses those strange hand gestures that most of us are used to by now. He backs into his house, shaking his head as Leo says we can't accept it. You're only allowed to keep five crates to sell in the district, the rest have to go straight to the Capitol. That's one whole crate he won't be earning anything on.

But he refuses to let us leave without it.

The afternoon flashes by too. It seems like no time at all passes before I'm separated from my brothers, herded into the penned section for seventeen-year-old girls. If I try to remember what's gone by all I see is a moment wrapping shellfish into bread, a moment hugging my mother tightly, a moment straightening Joss's collar.

All I'm left with is a salty taste in my mouth and a dry thirst.

As always, I spend the entire reaping repeating their names to myself. I don't know when it became a habit, but it did. I seek them out, each in their separate pens.

_Tate Cresta. Joss Cresta. Caleb Cresta._

I seek out Leo, Mum and Dad over with the rest of the parents and siblings that are too old, too safe. I see the suffering in Leo's face that he's trying to hide and think for a moment about how I'll have to do that same thing. Tate will be eighteen before me. This is his last year. But I'll have to spend the next four years watching Joss. The next five years watching Caleb. Even after I'm safe. I think for a moment that it's worse to be standing where Leo is than where I am.

_Tate Cresta. Joss Cresta. Caleb Cresta._

I look away from them and search for the others. Tate is ahead of me, in the group closest to the stage. He stands aside and talks quietly to some of the other fishing boys, away from where the academy students boast loudly about how they'd volunteering no matter what. I don't know why they talk like this every year and then watch silently as someone gets chosen.

The speeches start and I watch Joss stare straight ahead, his eyes glassy as if he's not really here. He has that same ability I do to switch off and not be present with this world when he doesn't want to be. Except I won't, not today. I watch them and I repeat their names to myself.

_Tate Cresta. Joss Cresta. Caleb Cresta._

Caleb looks down at the floor. He's tall for his age – just like the rest of us. Beanpoles, Dad says. Beanpoles with the unruly mop of dark hair. We didn't have a chance, Tate always retorts, not with him and mum looking like they do.

Caleb doesn't look up. Just like last year. I can't help but wonder what my youngest brother is thinking. We never talk about the reaping. I don't think I've ever spoken to anyone about it. We spend the morning laughing and playing like always and pretend it's not happening. Then we go home and carry on like someone else's brother and sister hasn't been sent away to die.

It sounds cruel. But it's a way of survival.

_Tate Cresta. Joss Cresta. Caleb Cresta_.

I repeat them to myself. Almost as if, because _I'm_ saying them, Alexia Summerby won't. Surely that would be too much of a coincidence? Us both saying their names at the same time?

It's stupid. I know. But it's what keeps me sane.

Tate Cresta. Joss Cresta. Caleb Cresta.

I barely notice as Alexia announces that she's calling the girls. They're still safe. For a few more moment, they're still safe.

A name is called.

I'm still reciting.

_Tate Cresta. Joss Cresta. Caleb Cresta._

It doesn't seem right. It fits. That weird, too much of a coincidence fit. But not quite.

Annie Cresta.

All I remember is the taste of salt.

I don't remember walking up the stage. I don't remember them saying the same old thing about the honour that they always do.

I do remember the patchy applause. I don't blame them. District Four are always disappointed when their tributes aren't from the academy. It reduces their chances.

I'm think all these things quite rationally. As if it wasn't happening to me. Perhaps I'm in shock, I think, idly. I hadn't even thought to prepare for this. I was too busy focusing on the boys.

I continue to repeat their names to myself.

_Tate Cresta. Joss Cresta. Caleb Cresta._

My eyes are becoming blurry. Perhaps I am affected by it after all. I just haven't registered it in my mind yet.

I blink until I can see again. My face is enlarged on the giant screens around the marketplace. I can't let the others see me with tears in my eyes. I doesn't work. I can already see on the screen that my eyes are too wide, too shiny, my lips too firmly set. The Careers don't look like this. They're usually sneering, smirking or smiling. But for some reason I can't make my face move.

_Tate Cresta. Joss Cresta. Caleb Cresta._

"What's that dear?" Alexis asks. "Did you want to say something?"

I stare blankly at her for a moment. She must have seen my lips move. I try to remember what other tributes have said in the past. I can't remember a thing.

"No." I say. It comes out more defiantly than I meant to. Perhaps that's a good thing.

She blinks in surprise, but carries on and brightly announces the boys name.

_Tate Cresta. Joss Cresta. Caleb Cresta_.

Dante McMaster.

It's not them.

I can breathe again.

But now I can't stop the tears gathering in my eyes as he approaches the stage. He's a sixteen-year old Career. He sneers at the crowd and they love it. Thankful that they have at least one viable tribute to root for. I should be bitter. Afraid.

All I can register is that I'm happy. Happy that he goes to his possible death as long as my brothers aren't. It's wrong, I know. That registers. On some level.

Along with the feeling in my gut that I've tried to ignore.

I acknowledge it as the anthem plays and I shake hands with one of the twenty-three people I will face in the arena.

I am going to die.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**: FINNICK

We wait in the Justice Building while this year's two say their goodbyes. I hate being in here. Not because I remember my own – I barely do. But because the only times we victors have to come in here is when we're preparing for the games. It means going back there. My life in District Four is over for another year. Time to turn off the feelings and turn on the mask.

Not only have I got to try and keep two strangers alive but I've got to do everything they ask of me – everything – to keep alive a family that doesn't want me.

I hate this place.

The mayor puts on a lunch in the hall and we mingle. Well. _They_ mingle. Discuss plans. Strategies. And that's before we've even sized the two of them up properly.

I reply if they talk to me. Smile and joke. But I must give off some kind of vibe because I pretty much get left alone to sulk.

I watch as rowdy gang of boys leave Dante McMaster's room. I practically sense their excitement, their pride, their jealousy. Careers, all of them. They wish they were him but their relieved that they're not. At least for one more year.

His laughter follows them out of the room as the peacekeepers escort them out, and his father in. Just his father. I wonder if he has any siblings. I wonder where his mother is. If she's alive. Then I curse myself for wanting to find out anything irrelevant about these two. Only the facts. Only the strengths and weaknesses. That's all I need to know.

Old Mags comes and sits next to me, perching on the edge of the plush velvet couch but leaning heavily onto her cane. She must be going on eighty by now, but she still is forced to attend every games. I try not think of what that means for my own future. The years ahead seem endless. And not in a good way.

She doesn't say anything, just puts her curled, gnarled hand over mine. That's one of the reasons I like her. She knows me. She knows not to fill the silence with meaningless words. I have to do that enough of the time. She's long since gone beyond the expectations of a mentor. Those ended five years ago when I came out of there alive.

But it didn't stop her. I've never asked why she's been alone as long as I've known her. She's old – it could be that she's just outlived her family. But I don't think so.

"What do you think Odair?" A loud voice interrupts our amicable silence. Keane Greaves, a barrel-bellied victor from about fifteen years ago approaches. I sigh, and in the instant I look up break into a cocky grin.

"Potential." I answer, complacently. "I can work with it."

He guffawed. "I should hope so, what with this being your year. You turn to deal with the brats this time round."

I don't need the reminder. This year I won't be able to take a back seat, offer a few words of advice, schmooze a few sponsors here and there while I go off and do the other business the Capitol asks of me. It's a mixed blessing. On one hand, the Capitol surely can't ask me to keep up the same number of clients as last year. But on the other hand, I have to try and mould some winners.

I laugh, airily. "On your way Greaves, or I'll start to think you're trying to psych me out." Everyone knew that, since the victors shared the two roles of being direct mentors year by year, there was an unspoken competition of who could produce the most winners. This being my first year, the pressure's on.

I watch as Dante McMaster's father marches out, unemotional and brushing his hands on his trousers as if he's just left a business meeting. Before the door closes I catch a glimpse of the boy himself reclining on the couch. He has the confidence, that's evident. Having Career tributes always increases our chances, and confidence to boot was a pretty good sign.

The girl, though. From a fishing family, you can tell from the look of her. Not to mention the fact that her hair was still wet from whatever fishing or diving duties she'd had that day. Not enough muscle. Sure, she'd be strong enough; used to hard work but too tall and slim to do any real damage. And her attempt to hide her fear up on stage had been weak at best. We could make her attractive enough. Not curvy enough to go for the whole temptress look but she had a pretty enough face.

It's important. I, of all people, know that. Just like I know that someone shouldn't be disregarded just because they were from a fishing family.

It just happened that only one District Four victor since the very first Games had been from a fishing family.

A bell sounds. Their time is up. McMaster joins the peacekeepers almost lazily and goes to the car without difficulty. The peacekeepers open the other door and summon out the girl's family.

The father supports the mother. She looks frail. I recognise the toll that worry over too many children has had on her. Now that worry has be proven true. The boys are younger replicas of their father, ranging from the eldest who looks about my age down to a lanky thirteen year old who doesn't yet look comfortable with his height.

The eldest turns back toward the doorway, angst breaking through his attempts to hide it. "Remember you promised, ok? Do not give up. You promised."

A peacekeeper stands between him and the door, making him back away. Another holds an arm against the door as the girl stands, as if she's going to make a run for it. Instead she stands there, hopelessness in her stance and expression.

"Leo I _can't_ -" Unlike when she was on the stage, her eyes are dry. But this only adds to her hopelessness.

"You don't know that." His expression gives it away. He knows as well as I do that his sister is going to die. "Remember you promised us. We won't watch you give up."

She swallows. Nods. Allows the peacekeepers to close the door in her face.

He stares at the doors for another couple of seconds as they take his arm to remove him. He doesn't seem to notice the rest of the victors around the room, having seen it all before, watching with varying degrees of  
disinterest. Except me.

For a second his eyes meet mine. They are dark. A dark, sea green like his sister's. In that second I feel like he's asking something of me. That I should assure him. Maybe I should promise him too. That I won't give up on her.

But I don't. You should never make those kinds of promises. Especially when the odds are certainly not in her favour.

* * *

"Finnick!" Alexia Summerby's voice trills through the door. "They're calling for dinner in ten minutes. You haven't even greeted the tributes yet!"

My peace is over. I'd spent the first couple of hours on the train lying flat on my back on my narrow bed. It was my last chance to shut the outside world away with just a click of a lock on my compartment door.

I stand, stare at the face looking soberly back at me in the small mirror above the tiny sink. It looks tired. A tired Finnick Odair isn't one the Capitol should see. I think about splashing water on my face, or even having a shave, but stop myself. We're not there yet. I don't have to make myself pretty for these two.

"Finnick?" Apparently Alexia isn't leaving without me.

I open the door. She starts a little. It's funny – no one remembers I slaughtered an arena full of children when I'm Finnick Odair, Capitol's plaything. As soon as I forget to dress up, cover up the flaws or play nicely they become a little jumpy around me.

"Oh, Finnick," Her expression softens, "This is a tough year for you. Your first shot. You don't have to worry about a thing. I _know_ you'll do wonderfully. And I'll help you."

It would be nice if it weren't coming from a woman with silver hair piled up so high on her hair that it wobbles precariously, sending glitter spiralling to the floor in her wake. Patronising. But nice.

A relief, anyway. To let her think that the pressure was getting to me.

Rather that than have everyone know it's not the pressure; it's what I know waits for me in the Capitol. The loss of privacy, dignity, identity.

We walk toward the rear end of the train, where the lounge area is. I hadn't been in that part of the train since my own Games and Victory Tour. The other victors get to stick to their own compartments, or use the front lounge. Away from the two reminders of why we're really here. Not for the first time, I wish I was back at the other end of the train, alone.

I pause in the doorway. It looks exactly the same.

Alexia immediately joins Dante where he's sat at the dining table with Loren, the other key mentor this year, discussing his prowess at the academy. Loren looks up and nods briefly, in greeting. Before her Games, four years before mine, her mentor had tried to get her to sell the sexy eighteen year old thing. In response, she'd shaved her head and kept it that way since. Even now she looks as menacing as she had in her Games, blonde bristles glinting in the light, eyes hard and mouth permanently downturned.

She resents me, I know that. I'm everything they tried to make her. I was the one that won because of looks. She thinks I have no worthwhile input to give and is irritated to be teamed with me. We'd barely spoken twenty words directly to one another in the five years since I'd won, and none of them were particularly heart-warming.

It looks like Dante had a similar opinion. He looks up at me and frowns. "What's wrong with your face? You don't look like you do on TV." He concludes, derisively, gaining a chuckle from Loren.

"Neither will you, by the time the prep teams have finished with you." I respond, and can't help but be amused by the offence he clearly took even from an offhand comment. Definitely Loren's protégé. "If you're lucky." I add, just to add fuel to the flames.

He scrapes back his chair and stands up, scowling and I can read the second he decides to pick up the empty plate from the dining table and hurl it at me like a discus.

In the instant it takes to reach me I decide to go for the catch, rather than the easy deflection. Greater risk, but more impressive.

It pays off. I catch it in one hand from the space beside my head – where it was going to miss by a foot or so.

"Work on your aim." I tell him with a genuine grin, and toss the plate back into its place.

"Really, Dante." Alexia rearranges the place setting with precision. "Why would you attack the very person that's going to work to get you sponsors?"

Dante doesn't deem that worth a response, and turns his attention to the Avoxs, bringing in platter after platter of food. His eyes widened. Even at the academy they've never seen food like this before. Annie Cresta certainly won't have seen anything even close...

I realise she's not at the table. She's sat on a cushioned window seat along the length of the compartment, her back against the arches that follow the window and her side resting against the glass. She's staring out at the countryside streaming by. I remember how fascinating it was to travel at this speed the first time you do it.

It's only when I approach her that I see that she's not really seeing it at all. She's not seeing anything. I recognise the look of someone that's not in this world at that moment. Her eyes are glazed and fixed on a point in the distance. Her arms hug her knees and she doesn't even notice me standing there. She hasn't even noticed the mouth-watering smell of the food that's been brought in.

"Dinner's ready." I say softly, trying not to make her jump.

She only flinches for a second. Her eyes meet mine, just like her brother's did. Except these aren't asking me to help. They're not asking me anything. She looks past me to the table, then back out of the window.

"I'm not hungry."

Her complete disinterest in me is uncommon. Her lack of hunger in the face of almost certain death is not.

"You should still eat. While you still can." I smile reassuringly and nod my head mockingly at Dante, shovelling bread and pate into his mouth. "You've got some catching up to do."

She looks back at the table and for a second smiles at the – pretty bad – joke. Then it fades and she meets my eyes again. This time somewhat defiantly. "Is this where you start dictating everything I do and then I die anyway?"

It's blunt. Honest. A bit startling. I don't have anything to say for a second. When someone says something like that there's not much that can make them feel better.

But sometimes it's not about making them feel better. It's reminding them that they've got something to fight for.

"Giving _up_ already?" I ask, still not letting the smile slip.

She frowns for a second. I don't know if she saw me within hearing distance at her last goodbye with her brother, but it rings true all the same, just as I intended.

"No." She says, in that same defiant tone she used on stage, the one where I'd had to disguise my laughter as a coughing fit so's not to offend Alexia any further.

"You want a chance to live?"

She glowers at me. It makes me grin harder. It's what I would have done if someone had spoken to me like this.

"Then yes," I say. "Now's where you start doing everything I say."


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**: ANNIE

My stomach grumbles uncomfortably as we sit on the plush couches to watch reruns of the reapings. Once I'd started eating it had been hard to stop, but now I was regretting it. The thick, creamy soups and rich sauces left my stomach heavy and my throat sticky.

I'd been hoping for the chance to excuse myself to my compartment but it appeared I had no such luck. Alexia announced as they brought in a steaming pudding that we would watch the reruns to 'get a feel' for our opponents.

The thought made me feel even more sick.

I purposefully sat on the very edge of the wide, U-shaped couch closest to the window. Although it was getting dark I could see rolling grey clouds and before long, rain began to patter gently against the windows. Despite the almost overpowering heating on the train, I wrapped my arms around my legs, hoping they provided us with some more weather appropriate clothes when we got to the Capitol. My dress was far too thin to provide any weather resistance whatsoever.

I'd never been this far north before. I'd never been out of the mild, sunny climate of District Four, for that matter. It was always warm. Even when we got these devastating tropical storms where our houses would be dashed with heavy rain, strong winds and wild waves. Some of the older houses – nothing more than shacks – from further down the beach from us were destroyed beyond repair about two years ago. Since then people had been forced to build their houses further inland, up on the cliffs.

We were just lucky that we had seven capable sets of hands and Dad's keen eye to see where we could strengthen the house and block the flooding with sandbags. Last year we hadn't been able to leave the house for four days at one point. We'd had to make the food stretch out but Dad made it into a game so that even Caleb didn't complain too much.

Watching the rain, I suddenly miss them so much it hurts. As Caesar Flickerman opens the programming I wonder whether they're watching it at home on our tiny, boxy screen. I picture them sat around the softened wooden table that we all took turns sanding down with Dad. They'd be sat around it finishing the shellfish Old Gil gave us. We never cleared away the place settings after lunch; we'd had to get straight to the square. I wonder whether Mum had cleared away my place before anyone saw, or whether they'd left it. Conspicuously empty.

"_Annie_."

I jump.

Alexia's face with its odd silver tinge is close to mine.

"P – pardon?" I ask, realising they're all looking at me.

"I was just offering you the throw," She pulled a white blanket that was smooth as silk on one side and covered in fur on the other across, and settled it over me when I just blinked. "You look cold."

"Oh." I was still adjusting to the idea that this strange, almost robot-like lady cared for my comfort, and wondering what sort of animal had fur as pure white as this. Nothing we had in District Four. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, dear." She bustles back over to her place on the far side of the couch. "Now, make sure you're paying attention – this could be very important! And you've already missed the tributes from District One."

She sounds a little reprimanding, but I can't work out if she's serious or not with her bizarre accent.

"Sorry." I pull the furry throw over my shoulder and turn my attention to the giant flat screen that would fill the largest wall of our house.

I glance at Dante, who is sitting near the lady mentor who hasn't spoken a word to me the entire trip. He has a notepad out and is furiously scribbling as the tributes from District Two are announced. He already has a page of notes. For some reason this make me more nervous about him. I knew nothing about him before other than he was a career and he was Tate's age. I'd never pictured the careers doing any writing at the academy. I'd thought it had been more about brutal physical training.

This showed just how focused he was. Even more lethal.

I turn to the other mentor, the one that looks and sounds like Finnick Odair but seems almost like he has something missing from his face that I can't put my finger on. He is staring straight ahead at the screen. For a moment I think it's a stare like I do, like Joss does. That straight ahead stare where you're really not looking at anything. But then I see that he is taking it in. He's taking in each and every one of their faces and frowning slightly.

Perhaps he realises that each one of them have a greater chance of winning than at least one of his tributes.

He doesn't notice me watching him so I reach out, the throw still covering my arms, and poke him in the arm.

He jumps and turns to me, as if surprised I'm there at all.

"Should I be taking notes?" I whisper, nodding my head over to where Loren leans over to correct something Dante has written.

He follows my gesture and raises his eyebrows before turning back. "Would you ever look at them again if you did?"

I don't even think about it. "No." Of course I wouldn't. I can barely make myself watch them now.

"Then I think you're alright."

I look back at Dante. There's a vein standing out in his forehead and we haven't even got past District Three yet. "He's..." I hesitate, wondering if it's safe to voice concerns about my own District partner.

"Overdoing it." Finnick mutters.

This takes me by surprise, so I can't help laughing out loud. This earns me a glare from Dante and disapproving looks from Loren and Alexia.

"Sorry." I say again. Pretty much the main theme of what I've said to them all evening. I'm sure my cheeks are red so I bury my face in the furry blanket, leaving just enough room to peep over the top at the screen.

I look across at Finnick out of the corner of my eye. He's pressing his lips together trying to suppress that out of place grin. Unsuccessfully. Even with his mouth all screwed up like that his eyes are too bright to be innocent.

It makes me smile more. "I was going to say focused." I whisper primly, keeping my eyes on the screen.

He raises his eyebrows again, conceding. "But still overdoing it." He whispers back.

I smile again to myself. It make me feel a little better about how much I suck in comparison to Dante. If he's overdoing it, at least I don't have to aspire to that.

The smile is wiped off my face when they announce the District Four tributes. I look dazed, absent, unimpressive. I walk to the stage as if in a trance and any idiot can tell I'm paying no attention to anything going on around me. You can see my lips moving, whispering their names to myself. Tate Cresta, Joss Cresta, Caleb Cresta. It's no wonder Alexia thinks I have something to say. I look completely mad. My only saving grace is when my voice rings out clear and defiant when she asks me. Caesar comments something generic about appearances being deceiving and they move on without further comment.

To Dante. Who outshines me completely. I don't remember him strutting up to the stage like that. Or pumping his fists in the air. I must have been lost in my relief that my brothers were safe.

In the next instant they've moved on to District Five. Less than thirty seconds. That's all it was. For the viewers in the Capitol, anyway. Thirty seconds programming, two lives changed forever. At least one of whom is never going home again.

My hands are balled up in the glossy fur of the throw. I don't know what I'd thought it would look like. Or what I thought I'd see. Just because my families looks of stunned disbelief were engrained in my mind, didn't mean the Capitol deemed it camera-worthy.

Perhaps I'd just been hoping for another glimpse of them.

"Well I think you both did rather well." Alexia beams. You can't tell if she's serious or not. Or just says it because it's the right thing to do. That must surely be it. I don't know what part of my dazed and confused appearance is supposed to be 'rather well'.

"Some better than others," Dante interjects with a sneer.

It cuts deep because it was true. I have no defence.

"Some people don't spend their lives preparing for that moment." Finnick tells him, his voice light but quiet.

"What, you're that arrogant that you didn't even think there was a chance it would be you?" Dante looks incredulous. I'm sure I mirror him.

"_I'm_ arrogant?" I laugh in surprise. "I don't _hope and pray_ for the chance to kill and maim people. I don't spend my days practicing it so I look good for the cameras. _I'm _the arrogant one?"

"You're calling me arrogant?"

His face is so contorted with rage that I just blink at him. I'd laughed when he'd used the exact same word to describe me. He was practically frothing at the mouth.

He certainly had some kind of rage issue.

"Now, now." Alexia looks personally devastated at the breach of peace. "There's no need to fight."

"Isn't that what we're here for?" Dante practically spits.

"Certainly _not_ before the arena!" She looks shocked.

I can't contain another laugh. God forbid we harm one another before we're thrown into an arena to die.

I think my laugh confuses her all the more. She doesn't see the irony.

What I don't see is the heavy glass tankard in Dante's white knuckles. I only notice it when Finnick Odair sticks out a calm arm, wraps a hand around Psycho's forearm and firmly lowers it back to the table.

"Don't even think about it." He advises, the light-hearted tone absent from his voice. "Combat before the arena is heavily sanctioned."

I don't know which part of that statement is the more bizarre. That he considered Dante wielding a heavy glass at a completely ignorant me '_combat'_, or that they could punish us any more than they already have at this stage. Fortunately this time I don't laugh. The seriousness hits me just as it does Dante. It think for a moment he struggles against Finnick's grip but after a second he lets the tankard fall and sits back.

"What sort of punishment?" He asks.

"Let's just say that even _I_ would never be able to get you sponsors." Finnick says.

A couple of seconds silence allows that to sink in.

"So no fighting. With each other or the other tributes." He says, when neither of us replied. "Agreed?"

"Agreed." Dante mutters, his attention already back on the reaping and his notepad. I recognise that they've got to District Ten.

"Annie?"

I blink, caught unawares. "What?"

"Agreed?"

He's looking at me quite seriously. I open my mouth to voice my indignation when I catch the sparkle in his eyes.

It makes it hard to keep a straight face. "Oh, sure. I'll try and control my overwhelming range. Yes, sir."

"Wonderful." He turns back to the TV and leaves me trying not to laugh at Dante's threatening glare, Loren's (permanently) disgruntled expression and Alexia's obliviousness.

The remaining reapings are done before I can fully concentrate. I can't recall a single face except my own stunned one. Dante is grumbling curses and wishes of immense pain in my general direction as I made him miss the middle few districts.

Before I know it, we're being ushered out to our compartments to get our 'beauty sleep' ready for the morning.

"What happens in the morning?" I tentatively ask a bustling Alexia as she marches us down the train to our rooms.

"Your very first day in the Capitol." She beams. "You'll love it. We've got it all under control. First thing tomorrow, we arrive and you'll be off to the prep teams to get you ready for the big night!"

"It takes all day?" I ask, having never considered it before. Then I realise that each and every tribute, each and every year, is just a normal teenager. No different to me. Of course it takes time to make them look so plastic and perfect, as they always do on their presentation night.

"Don't you worry yourself." Alexia chides, "Leave it to us. You absolutely don't have to worry about a thing."

Except that in two weeks time I'll be dead.

Sure. Nothing to worry about.

* * *

I wake up, heart hammering, coated in cold sweat.

For one precious moment I'm disorientated – I have no idea where I am. It's too dark, the air is too dry and it's far too quiet with the just the dull hum of the train.

The train.

The Games.

My heart doesn't slow down in recognition of my surroundings. I want my bed. My narrow, wooden bed with the thin, lumpy mattress and light, billowing curtains.

This bed is wide, the blankets heavy. The space and expensive bedding is a strange luxury that I can't imagine anyone needing but all it does is make me feel small and weak.

I have no hope. I can't win. I am going to die.

I can't remember the dream that woke me up. But right now, I can't imagine it was any worse than reality.

I kick off the heavy blankets and shuffle off the bed, but it doesn't stop that feeling that I'm small, weak, trapped. The pyjamas that I'd found in a draw were a loose, silky material but they stuck to my sweaty back and twisted round my legs. I'm breathing heavily again.

I have to get out.

The hallway is empty and dark, but it looks like someone has left a light on in the lounge car that we were in earlier. I have nowhere else to go and I just need to see the outside, no matter how dark it is. I pad quietly down the hallway towards to back of the train in search of the windows.

"Oh." I stop dead in the doorway, seeing a shadowed figure in my seat from that afternoon. For an instant, I think it's Dante. And I'm afraid. And it infuriates me.

"Sorry." The figure speaks up, and my fear is quashed. "Looks like I stole your seat."

"It's a good seat." I smile, sounding less nervous than I thought I would. Though I wasn't so afraid as when I thought it was the slightly unhinged Dante, I wasn't entirely comfortable in the presence of Finnick Odair.

I'd never followed his story closely – we never had much time to watch television other than the compulsory viewings at home. But if he hadn't introduced himself, I might have trouble believing that this was the same Finnick Odair that graced our screens. There was something more real, more raw, and more dangerous than the plastic image the Capitol portrayed. There was more to him. And I didn't know what.

Whatever it was, it didn't worry me more than the claustrophobia awaiting me back in the compartment.

The long, arched window and it's seat span almost the entire length of the car. There's room for me to take the opposite side of the arch, facing the back of the train to stretch out my legs and still not touch him.

I take it. I was right. It was too dark to make anything out of the landscape we were flying by. Just perfect darkness.

"You should be sleeping." He advises, seemingly still aware of his mentor status. I notice that there are dark circles beneath his eyes that we never see on TV.

"I would if I could." The thought of sleep is so appealing – to forget for a few hours that I'm here to die. If only I could manage it.

He doesn't reply and I wonder if I was too abrupt. It can't be good to be rude to your mentor at this stage of the Games.

"Sorry." I say, barely audibly. I sigh and lean my head back against the arch.

He still doesn't say anything, just looks at me curiously, before averting his eyes back to the darkness.

The dim lighting in the car reflects on the glass and makes his tired eyes more vivid. I wonder what's made him so tired. Why he can't sleep either. Why he doesn't appear to want to. The light glints from the golden stubble on his jaw. I think that adds to his weary appearance. He certainly doesn't look like that on TV.

"Do they have to make you pretty tomorrow, too?" I ask.

He looks up, semi-amused, before I realise that I've been rude again.

"I didn't mean -" Before I can get an apology out, he's laughing. A loud, startling belly laugh that makes me jump.

I'm just beginning to smile too when he stops laughing, but the grin remains.

"You don't think I'm pretty?" He sounds delighted, rather than hurt or annoyed. How odd.

"I didn't mean... I'm... I wasn't -" I'm sure my face is scarlet. I wish I still had the furry throw to hide behind.

"I'm hurt." He looks anything but. "Wait till the preps get hold of me. I'll be stunning, don't you worry." The amused tone in his voice hardens ever so slightly, but he disguises it well.

"I wouldn't have thought they'd have to..." I flush again, realising what I'm saying. "Wait, I didn't mean because you're... I meant..." I stutter a little while he laughs again. "I meant because you're _you_. They don't have to make you into a new person for the Capitol to like. Everyone likes you anyway."

"It's not _me_ they like." He says, more seriously.

I don't know what to say to that. My first instinct is 'of course they do'. But I sense there's a double meaning that I don't understand. Don't like him? Of course they do. The Capitol loves Finnick Odair. Everyone does.

For the first few years he was portrayed as the boy wonder – so indulged in the Capitol that it made you kind of sick. I'd wondered how his family felt about him spending pretty much all his time in the Capitol. It was like he'd forgotten all about them and was relishing in his glory. I'm sure I even heard that he hadn't let them move into the Victor's Village into the house he'd won. Even though he'd barely used it.

Then last year, word was that he'd moved back to District Four. Back to the Victor's Village. No one really knew much about what he did, though. We'd only see him twice a year on the screens – the Victory Tour and the Games. When all the victors flocked to the Capitol.

It certainly looked like he was making up for lost time, though. Last year I don't think anyone paid any attention to the Games whatsoever. They were all glued to the screens watching what Finnick Odair was up to that day and with whom. He had no shortage of lady friends in the Capitol, it seemed. No wonder last year's two were dead in a matter of days.

Yet, right now, he doesn't look remotely excited to be on the way back. Back into his indulged, glittery life in the Capitol after a dull six months in District Four. In fact, if it were anyone else, I'd say they were dreading it.

It strikes me that, despite his fame, I know nothing about who Finnick Odair really is.

"What happens tomorrow?" I ask, into a growing silence. There doesn't seem much point working him out. I can only hope that he does his job and somehow performs a miracle to keep me alive.

He looks back. I wonder if he's aware that he wipes an dark, empty look off his face just a second too late when someone talks to him.

"Tomorrow's the easy part." He says, his eyes flashing pale in the dim light. I find it hard to look back at them. I think it's the proximity. It makes me uneasy. I want to look away but there's nothing to pretend to look at. I almost miss what he's saying. "They dress you up. It'll be ridiculous, but let them do it. You'll probably be a mermaid or a fish or something. All you have to do is exactly what they tell you. You don't even need to say anything at the show. Just smile and wave."

"I can do that." I say, nodding. It's the stuff that comes after that I'm worried about. "Then what?"

He looks at me for a moment, and I wonder if I'm being too demanding. Maybe it's annoying.

"Sorry. You probably want to wait for Dante and talk to us both together."

"He already knows more than you'll be able to learn this whole week. He's a Career."

I nod again. It's true – the Careers have the advantage of insider information. The instructors at the academy are past victors that can't get enough. I wonder why Finnick hasn't started training the future tributes. Perhaps he's so looked after by the Capitol that he doesn't need a job of any kind.

"Then you train. It's only a couple of days but you need to learn as much as you can. I'd focus on the survival stuff. It's the most likely way you'll..." He stops, probably seeing my eyes widen and eyebrows raise.

"Die?" I supply. "It's alright. You can say it."

He watches me closely. Knowing, I suspect, that I'm acting way too nonchalant. My heart hammers in my chest at the prospect of having to cram as much knowledge as I can in. Just to probably drag out the rest of the short amount of time I have left.

"Do they teach you to fight?" I say, trying to keep my voice casual but having never uttered the phrase before, it comes out unnaturally.

He's still watching me. "I'd advise against it."

I stare back. "Well that's handy. Guess I'll have to rely on my brute strength."

He doesn't laugh. "Look. Training's not... really about training. You're not going to learn how to become a killer in two days. You've either got it or you don't. And you won't find out until you're in the arena."

I don't. I absolutely don't. Of that I am certain.

"So there's no hope." I say.

"I didn't say that." He carefully doesn't agree. Or disagree.

I sigh and look back out of the window. "So I go along and learn to – what? Light a fire? Eat plants and muck?"

"Yes. You learn to keep yourself alive." He says, deadly serious again. "You don't show your strengths..."

_That will be easy_, I think. I have none to show.

"...not until the private assessment. You don't show your weaknesses."

Now I understand the no fighting rule. But it still fuels my hopelessness.

"So I learn to find food and water. Shelter. Then what? No one wins but staying alive. They win by killing." My voice breaks on the last word, high pitched with panic. "I can't _do_ that."

"You can. You might not feel it now, but you can. If your own life is at risk – you can kill."

I swallow. "Can you teach me?"

He looks taken aback for a moment. Then shakes his head. "I already told you – you can't learn to kill in a couple of days..."

My stomach sinks. He's given up on me before we've even started. He knows it's useless.

"... But you can learn to defend yourself. To fight."

I look up. "You'll do it?"

He looks at me a few more seconds, his head slightly tilted. "You need to think this through. When we're in the Capitol, we have four days. Four, jam-packed days. The only time we'll have will be at night. You'll be tired. You'll be putting yourself at a disadvantage in that way."

"I'll be putting myself at more of a disadvantage if I don't know one end of a spear from another." I'm not put off. And I'm sure I won't be able to manage a whole night's sleep the entire time I'm here. Then I realise what I'm asking. "Oh. You mean _you'll_ be tired. You won't be pretty for the cameras..." I don't know where the courage to tease came from, but I instantly regret it. Sure I've gone too far this time.

But no. A smile spreads across his face. "I thought you didn't think I needed it?"

I'm too embarrassed to do anything but glare feebly at him, my cheeks too hot.

"You'll do it?" I ask again, more quietly. I appreciate what he'd be giving up to help me. It would be going beyond his duties, surely.

The smile grows smaller, but seems more genuine. "I'll do it." He says. "That's my job."


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR: **FINNICK**

I've accidentally done it. Almost.

Made that promise that I'll almost certainly have to break. I couldn't say it to her brother. And, to be fair, I haven't actually promised it to her. I never said 'I promise to keep you alive'.

But only because I stopped myself.

But still, I've promised to help, to teach, to train. I have four days to get her confident enough to use a knife, a spear, her fists...

As soon as I agreed I regretted it. What was I _doing_? Why was I raising her hopes? It would make much more sense to focus both mine and Loren's efforts on Dante – he was practically gagging for a chance to get his hands on a stash of weapons. He was made for this.

But I couldn't do that. I don't know if it was something in her dark green eyes – a spark of intelligence. She'd know exactly what we were doing. She'd know we'd chosen him over her. I couldn't let her – let anyone – die knowing that the person supposed to help them had given up on them.

As the sky began to lighten to a deep grey, I advised her to catch a couple of hours sleep so that the prep teams weren't too shocked. She didn't understand the joke. She would later today.

I stayed. The preps were always devastated when they saw me after my six month absence. They were almost hardened to it by now, in their flamboyant, dramatic way. Fortunately, the mentors weren't their priority during the Games. Most mentors, even the key two, could get away with an hour's prep. Unfortunately, most mentors weren't me. Under someone's orders, I got that 'special' treatment.

In my mind, that meant they could just suffer through and deal with whatever I presented as the blank canvas.

The sky grew brighter until the sun threatened to break through the thick white cloud. The smells of cooking began to permeate through the air and I knew it wouldn't be long until everybody arrived for breakfast. My solitude was over.

The first to arrive – still suspiciously early – was Loren. I still hadn't moved from the window seat.

She stopped a few feet away and folder her arms with a smirk. "What a shame; you don't cut as pretty a picture sat there as our young tribute."

"That's the third time my appearance has been insulted in twenty-four hours." I acknowledge. "I'm hurt."

"Put on a flimsy dress and bat those beautiful , teary eyes and you're almost there."

It irritates me more than it should to hear her belittling people. Maybe because I'm too often on the receiving end.

"How can I help you, Loren?" I change the subject smoothly, hoping she doesn't notice the crack in the mask.

She pulls out a chair and straddles it backwards, leaning her forearms on the backrest. It just adds to her masculine appearance and I suspect she's picked up this habit on purpose.

"It's about our wee tributes that we're supposed to be merrily training as a team." Her eyes narrow, all business. There is absolutely no malice and no cordiality in her voice as she says, "I don't like you, Finnick."

It's so matter of fact that all I do it blink at her – unsurprised by the idea but unexpected at the announcement.

"Well, that warms my heart." I say, when she pauses for a moment. "But does it have to do with our tributes?"

She carries on as if I haven't spoken. "I don't like who you are and I don't like what you stand for." It was just getting cheerier and cheerier. "If I could have been paired with anyone else for this I would have, but you know the rules. It's our turn."

"The dream team." I interject, but she is unamused.

"I can do this on my own. I don't want to see you. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want your input. I want to do it alone."

I blink. This I wasn't expecting this. "Both of them?" I ask, beginning to suspect where this is going.

"Not exactly." She narrows her eyes, looking more and more hawk-like. "I want the Career."

"Of course you do." I sigh, as if it's quite tiresome. When really, I'm a little taken-aback. Sure, I'd acknowledged in my mind that it was more logical to focus on Dante in the hopes of producing a winner. But I'd never planned to do so. I'd never even considered that it was a real option. It was too despicable.

She doesn't respond, just watches me with those yellow eyes and waits for my response.

She's deadly serious. She would do this. I wait a few more beats before answering. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do it fairly." I say.

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

"We work alone to get the sponsors and we keep them to ourselves. But when they're District sponsorships, District gifts, we split them 50/50. No arguments. No sabotage."

It's her turn to blink vacantly. "You're actually going to take the girl."

I smirk. "What did you expect? I'd just skip off merrily on my way and leave you to it? I don't quit, Loren. I do my job."

"And you really think there's any point in trying? She's from a _fishing village_, Finnick."

"And who else came from a fishing village, _Loren_?" I raise my eyebrows. People seem to find it easy to forget.

"You can't compare her to you. You know it. You might pretend to be a nice guy but you know the way this works as well as anyone. She's not strong enough, she hasn't got a clue how to fight and she's not attractive enough. She hasn't been working at it, like some of us. And it hasn't come to her in some turn of fate, like _others_." She narrows her eyes, clearly resentful that someone from my humble beginnings should have it so easy.

If only she knew.

I smile. "I disagree."

She sighs. "Of course you do. What was it? The dress? The eyes? The tragic face?"

I smile again, this time it's more strained. "I don't like you, Loren. I don't like your methods, I don't like your attitude, and I don't like your discrimination. Leave my tribute alone and I'll leave yours."

Her face lapses back into a cunning smile. "Then we have a deal?"

"We play fair. 50/50 split of District gifts. Other than that we're on our own." I confirm.

"Deal." She holds out her hand.

"Deal." I shake, wondering if I've made a mistake.

"You haven't slept." Clementine accuses sternly. I'm really not too affected by the lack of concern for my health and wellness. They aren't worried for me, the preps. They're worried for themselves. Every time they hope I might take a little more care of myself while I'm away and give them a blank canvas in a slightly better condition.

Every time, they're disappointed.

"Sorry." I've long since learned that this is the best response.

Clementine sighs, dismissing my apology – sarcastic though it may have been. She pushes and pulls at various parts of my face and talks to Felix over her shoulder as if I'm not even there. "He'll need another round of injections, Felix, the viewers don't like to see our younger victors with facial hair... Things were easier when he was fourteen... teeth whitening, too, while you're in the stores..."

I zone out, barely flinching at my skin being pulled out and my mouth being yanked open. It's almost routine, now. They can mostly be done with me fairly quickly and I can tell the two of them are itching to get to the tributes.

"Who have you got this year?" I ask, as Clem moans a bit that she'll have to shave my rough cheeks tonight because the injections won't kick in quickly enough. I distinctly remember being terrified of the enormous needle looming towards my throat the first time. I was a gangly fourteen year old with barely enough facial hair to cover a pin head, let alone warrant an injection to prevent hair growth. Now they were a part and parcel of my regular trips to the Capitol.

"Girl." Clem says, brightly, smothering my face with shaving foam. "That's why we're in such a rush. Girls always take longer. From a fishing family, they're saying. She'll need some work."

All this talk about fishing families is annoying me more than usual. It's always mildly irritating that they all seem to have forgotten who they're talking to when they put down the kids from the beaches. But this year it's annoying me more than most. Most likely in part because it's my first year as a key mentor. And then the deal I've made with Loren. I've got more invested in this girl than I've had in any of the others.

I keep my mouth shut about the deal. "What are you doing with them today?"

Clem smiles secretively, "That would be telling, Finnick."

I count in my mind. It's only a matter of time before she can't contain herself. Three... four... five...

Her eyes snap to the zipped up clothes rack against the wall. "Oh, alright, just a glimpse." She abandons her task of slathering some kind of cream on my face and darts over to the rack. "I had the idea for ages, of course, but I had no way of knowing if it would work... you know the types we sometimes get..."

I nod. She doesn't mean it in a malicious way, but I do know. When we get a female career they're usually...well. Let's just say they're not petite. Well able to look after themselves. But Clem can't help but hope for a tribute that will look the part in her teeny tiny designs. She doesn't give up.

"I had a couple of backups but they just _weren't right_," She explains, flicking through what looks like hundreds of labelled items before pulling out a particular bag. "But then I saw her reaping and _oh_, perfect. It's been so long since I've had a pretty one, Finnick. Obviously she needs some work, even I can't play the 'natural beauty' thing _that_ much. But she's slim, she fits the design, she's got all that hair..." Clem looks beside herself. "Tada!"

She brandishes it in front of me, incredibly pleased with herself.

"Oh, it's... stunning." Literally. The minute she pulls it out in to the light I'm half-blinded by an array of shiny blue sequins. Stunning, yes. Original... no.

"Oh, you're sweet." She beams, before rattling on about how she'd spent weeks taking photographs of the sea at all hours to get the colours and the pattern just right. Eventually she hangs it back up and remembers that she's halfway through plastering me with shaving cream. She's so flustered that she scolds Felix when he arrives back with an armful of products and has him dashing around applying teeth whitening gel whilst she's still trying to shave my jaw. An all-around uncomfortable experience.

When I'm finally allowed to leave with promises that, _yes_, I can be trusted to dress myself now. _Yes_ I'll take the suit straight to my room and leave it there until tonight. _Yes_, I have mastered putting on a suit after five years.

That's the thing. When they've known you as a cocky fourteen-year-old, they never stop treating you like a child.

Annie Cresta is waiting perched on a chair outside the door when I leave with the suit draped over my arm.

She's still wearing her own dress, even though there were clothes delivered to her compartment for her. It's strange how many tributes feel the need to cling on to that link to home. But she's relented to wearing the grey, microfiber jacket over the top. At least she's not stupid. Smart enough not to give in to the cold because of stubbornness. That's one thing I can work with.

She looks up a couple of seconds after I stop in front of her. Her dark eyes take a moment to focus as if, once again, I've dragged her from a daydream. I find myself wondered what she was thinking of in those private moments. She didn't look frightened anymore. But she didn't look happy either.

I decide to remove the melancholy look from her face. "I know what you're in for." I say, in a sing-song voice.

Her eyes widen and, just as I hoped, the sad look vanishes from her face and she's instantly torn between worry and amusement.

"What? What is _that_ supposed to mean?" She looks half-panicked but at least her lips are curving up now, almost into a grin.

"Not telling." I say, and begin to walk away.

"_Finnick_!" She stands, hands on her hips. I turn back and see that she looks surprised. Probably that I can be as immature as the next person. I'm pleased she's risen to my jibe, it shows some sort of fight. It's what I hoped to see.

"What?" I ask, innocently. "I'm not going to ruin the surprise. You're in for a treat."

She narrows her eyes. "Call yourself a mentor?"

I smile and begin to walk away again.

"Finnick." She stops me in my tracks a second time.

I turn around, questioningly.

She smiles. A genuine smile. "You look pretty."

It makes a smile grow on my own face. And, for once, it's genuine too. For the first time it means something. Not that she thinks I look 'pretty', so much. But that we have this joke. We have something to make us a team. We need to be a team; a tribute can't win alone.

The words, 'you do, too,' are about to form on my lips, before I can stop them. That's not what I mean, surely. I should mean, 'you _will_, too'. She's praising, however sarcastically, the preps. Not me. And she will be pretty. She'll be stunning under their hands. They all are.

But in that moment, with that genuine smile, she's beautiful the way she is. Straggly hair, faded dress and all.

And for a moment I don't want them to fix her.


End file.
